


Oh, Wilderness Were Paradise Now

by Heronfem



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Changing Tenses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heronfem/pseuds/Heronfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dorian gets his soul marks, he mourns for the man he'll never have, this "Hissrad" whose name is on his body.  When The Iron Bull gets his, he mourns, for the lack of name means that his soul mate has rejected him.</p>
<p>This is the story of how they find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Wilderness Were Paradise Now

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon.

**“The thought,  
The deadly thought of solitude.” - Keats**

oOo

Dorian comes down sick four months into his work with Alexius. He's been working hard, constantly fighting to figure how the theories and ideas might all fit together in their complicated little boxes. Felix watches from the second level of the library as Dorian drags a blanket around his shoulders, his father emerging from the shadows.

“Well?” Gereon murmurs, and Felix nods.

“It's just like when I got sick,” he says softly. “I doubt that he even knows what's happening. Halward doesn't seem the type to think to tell his son, and he would laugh off stories at school.”

Gereon sighs, his eyes dark with pity. “This will not be easy on him.”

“No,” Felix agrees sadly, touching his chest where black ink spills sheet music across it, “it will not.”

oOo

There are three days of fever, sweating, and nightmares that Dorian screams his way through. Felix tends to him on his own, both the house slaves and Gereon himself banned from the room while he works. Bad enough that Dorian is going through this at all. He doesn't need the shame of others knowing who his soul mate is on top of that.

On the morning of the fourth day, he turns down the covers and sees. “Oh, _amicus_ ,” he says with infinite pity. 

In jet black, spreading across his chest, is a war hammer. It's highly stylized, and definitely Qunari in design. The two sides stretch almost the full breadth of Dorian's chest, the handle dipping down between the ridges of fine muscle to rest just above Dorian's navel, intricately designed. Beneath his navel are two stacked words. The first is in Qunlat, sharp and heavy, and beneath it, in a firm, solid hand, is the name HISSRAD.

Dorian's still panting from the pain he's been through, and Felix carefully switches out the damp rag on his forehead. At least the room is warded heavily enough to withstand an assault by the Archon himself, when Dorian panics there will be no major damage.

Felix sits, and waits.

Dorian wakes around noon, his fever broken, and says hoarsely, “Everything hurts. Why does everything hurt?”

“You've been given a terrible gift, my friend,” Felix says, his voice tired. “Tell me, have you heard the stories about soul marks?”

Dorian turns bleary eyes to him, blinking. “Excuse me? The children's tale? All the virtuous whoever who find the person they're meant to be with and all that, fancy magical tattoos?”

“That's right,” Felix says, and opens his shirt to show him the convoluted mass of sheet music across his chest. At the bottom is written, in a flowing hand, _Aquila Antispeos_. She is the most popular composer of the Blessed Age. She is very, very dead.

“Felix,” Dorian says slowly, his eyes growing wide.

“I kept everyone out and tended to you myself while it formed,” Felix says, keeping his voice firmly devoid of pity. “No one will know, unless you want them to. And I rather doubt you will.”

Dorian sits up, and sees the marks.

The panic is as bad as Felix had expected, and he simply puts up a barrier while Dorian rages and cries and lets all the fear and anxiety pour out of him like water. Wisps from the Fade wrap around him when he finally sinks to the floor, as if wanting to comfort him, and Dorian buries his face in his hands before finally starting to sob. Felix sinks to the floor, wraps an arm around him, and lets him mourn the loss of a man he'll never be allowed to have.

Dorian does not talk about it, after.

He wears tall shirts that give no chance of showing his chest or the mark there on. He stops flirting with other people. He drinks to excess.

He throws himself into his work, and Felix feels his pain every time he sits at the piano to play a tune that he will never hear from the masters hands.

oOo

After everything. After the attack in the Anderfels, after Halward saw the mark, after the attempt at blood magic, after Dorian had dragged himself halfway across Thedas and slept in barns to keep from freezing, after the magic of the future and Alexius is taken down.

After all of that, Dorian bathes with a dwarf.

Varric is built like a brick, and he appreciates that. Sturdy, solid, resolute. Dorian is a little bit jealous, and the only reason he's bathing with a dwarf at all is because this dwarf has a soul mark as well. He does not permit the others to see. They don't have them. Adaar stays out of it, and understands when Varric insists that they be permitted to be alone. They're armed, they're dangerous, they just need some privacy.

Varric gets it.

“Bianca,” Dorian reads as he helps get the guts out of Varric's hair. “I don't understand. Your soul mate is your crossbow?”

Varric snorts, holding still while Dorian grabs the comb to fix a snarl. “Nah. The maker.”

“Well, damn. A different caste, then?”

“Way different.” Varric sighs heavily, and Dorian carefully works on the tangle. “She has children and a husband.”

“Ouch. Does she have-”

“Yes. Weirdly enough, she does. She has a matching mark, the same bow, though I've heard that's pretty damn rare. Most of the time it's some other item that people are fond of, like, oh, a page from something they've written, or a flower they picked, something they've made. But apparently my Bianca and her Bianca are enough to tie us both together. So be it.” Varric studies Dorian's war hammer curiously. “This is beautiful, though.”

“Hissrad,” Dorian says gloomily, sitting down in the stream. It's a warm day, comfortable, and Varric makes him feel safe like no one before Felix had. “I looked it up. It means “master of illusion”. A spy, perhaps. Or a priest. Either way, not likely. He- or- or she is probably stuck back in Par Vollen, living their life, and not thinking a thing about me. I- Well. It can never happen.”

Varric sighs, perching on a warm rock while Dorian scrubs the grime off of his own arms. “It's possible for people not to get the other half. I know people who have marks, and the person who should have the other doesn't. It's sad.”

“Here's to us being a fucked up tragedy,” Dorian says, and Varric laughs.

There's only a few tears in it.

oOo

And then comes the Storm Coast. Dorian, who gets seasick at the mere idea of anything beyond little wavelets in a lake, declines to come with so he can help Solas calibrate the mages. Varric goes with, along with Vivienne and a very uncomfortable Blackwall.

They have a nice little fight on the beach, and Varric goes fifteen kinds of cold when he sees the massive Qunari throw a war hammer over his back. The Qunari has black vitaar in elegant patterns all over his shoulders. There are a few that look almost like peacock feathers.

_Oh, fuck,_ he manages to think in something of a panic as The Iron Bull explains that he's a spy. Adaar seems fine with it, they add The Iron Bull and the Chargers to the team, all is well. Except it's not.

They're on the way back, Varric's stubby, stubborn little pony keeping pace with The Iron Bull's massive black war horse, when he asks in a carefully relaxed voice, “So, what's your name?”

“The Iron Bull. I thought you could hear that, easily enough.”

“Not what I meant, Tiny,” Varric says. Kirkwall feels like dust on his tongue, old blood oozing in to fill his mouth with the coppery taste of fear. “I've met enough Qunari to know about the names thing. So, let me clarify. Are you Hissrad?”

Silence. Varric very carefully doesn't look up. He knows he's being examined, but that's a risk he's going to have to take. He's a spy as well, he knows what he's doing, but the Qunari are on a whole different level than he is. Not quite as good as Leliana, certainly, but good. He remembers the Qunari that patrolled around the city, their eyes like little burning candles as they watched the denizens of Kirkwall scurry about their business like so many rats and cockroaches. They _saw_ , with unclouded, disdainful eyes. He is not about to forget how easily they saw through human mistakes, and he's far too close to being just a very short human these days in most peoples eyes.

“You're an interesting person, dwarf,” The Iron Bull says, and there's a bit of an edge to his voice. “That's a pretty damn specific guess.”

“Just unlucky, I suppose,” Varric says, his heart pounding now. Shit. Dorian is going to lose his mind in the panic this causes.

They round the corner to Haven, and Varric urges his pony into a lope.

This has the potential to get very ugly.

oOo

When The Iron Bull was still Ashkaari, he saw a pair of soul mates waiting in line by the bakers. He was out with his Tama, holding her hand as the two somber warriors, both Ashaad, ordered their breakfast and moved to wait by the side of the road. The older of the two had a vivid black mark on his cheek, a small dagger, and the younger had an elaborate knot on his chest in the same dark black. _Ashaad_ was written under each.

“Who are they?” He asked his Tama, and she smiled, squeezing his hand.

“They are _kadan_ , Ashkaari. Soul mates. They are each others heart, and strong warriors together.”

“Will I have a _kadan_?” He asked, eyes brightening as the two sat together to eat.

His Tama smiled, picking up a basket of carrots from one of the little stalls. “You may yet,” she said. “It's important to tell someone if you get soul marks, so they can try to find your other half. The Qun teaches us that these people are meant to be together, to fight as one or to bake as one or to teach as one. Sometimes, peoples jobs even change so they can be together. We are stronger together than apart.”

“I want a _kadan_ ,” he said wistfully, and she chuckled, balancing the basket on her hip and leading him back through the shops.

“And you may yet have one, _imekari_. It is a very painful thing to go through, getting the marks. You suffer, often for nearly a weak, with fevers and chills and much pain and nightmares. And if you are strong and survive it all, you will have your marks.”

Ashkaari remembered this, and memorized the words so he would know if the time came.

oOo

The time did come. It came on Seheron, approximately ten days before he left.

The small city that had sprung up around the Qunari was always busy. Sometimes it was full of people trading, some times it was full of people on their way to the docks to trade out their commission for a new land, some times it was full of tiny, excited children who wanted nothing more than to make Bull sit down so they could marvel at his horns.

He liked the last days the best.

“Really?” Gatt said when he found him in the crowd, about six children piled on him and one little girl who would almost certainly be a Tamassran scolding the lot of them for not waiting in a line. Hissrad smiled up at him, indulgently tipping his head so one of the children could hold onto his horn and be pulled up.

“Yes, really. Did you find Karaas?”

“He's at the cafeteria. There's some sort of mix up with the bread order again, and he got volunteered to help out before someone had to go have strong words with someone else again.” Gatt wrinkled his nose as Bull easily hefted one of the larger children into his lap and kissed the top of their downy little head. Their horns were still coming in. “We do actually have to be leaving, and soon.”

“All right, all right,” he sighed, and the children all obediently scrambled off. He ruffled hair and hugged a few, and then they were on their way. Gatt grimaced as they turned a corner.

“I just don't understand why you like children so much,” he muttered.

“Because they're small, and fearless, and vicious,” Hissrad said, and was about to say more when he stumbled, catching a wall for support.

Gatt was at his side in a flash, one tiny hand on his shoulder. “Hissrad, whoa, what's wrong?”

“Nothing- just- ugh.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “Shit. Fever.”

Gatt went paler than usual, and forced him to sit down on a crate. “I'll fetch a doctor. _Do not move_. Understand?”

Hissrad nodded, and passed out.

oOo

When he came to, it had been six days of agony. He stared blankly at the ceiling of the infirmary, wondering why he felt so stiff and uncomfortable. The faint rustle of trees beyond the building had him turning his head, and he blinked when he saw Gatt sitting with his Tama on a chair beside the bed.

“You gave us quite the scare,” his Tama said mildly. She was knitting, with needles almost the length of her arm, and yarn in a solid dark green. “It's been six days. Congratulations, you have soul marks.”

He couldn't even bring himself to be happy. Everything ached. His whole body felt like it was somewhere between “on fire” and “encased in ice”.

“You don't seem happy,” he managed, his voice raspy, and Gatt passed him some water. With that in him, he felt considerably better, and carefully sat up against the little headboard. He turned, staring at the lines and squares across his shoulders. It looked like vitaar. Really, really fancy vitaar.

“There was no name,” Gatt said quietly. 

Hissrad felt his soul turn to ice. He reached up with a trembling hand to trace the long, feather like strands across his shoulder with shaking fingers. “No name?”

“Nothing,” Gatt confirmed, his voice betraying his exhaustion. “Believe me, we've checked. There's nothing.”

Hissrad lowered his head into his hand and felt the agony take him. 

He knew what it meant. His soul mate was rejecting him, refusing to allow the possibility of happiness together. That was the only reason the names never appeared. It had been documented a few times, names appearing after people had met and the joy of having someone who understood you instantaneously allowed hearts to soften, but if he couldn't find them-

Hissrad was to be alone. Marked, and rejected.

He leaned into his Tama and let himself weep for what might have been.

oOo

He left Seheron with new orders. He met Krem. He formed the Chargers. He drank, he fucked, he wrote back to Par Vollen.

Most people thought they were tattoos, and he didn't discourage that idea. But there were some who had soul marks as well, who looked him over and showed him theirs, nameless as well. One of them had an entire map of Orlais across his back, and Bull took quite a bit of time with him, plying his body into bonelessness to relieve him of the pain that always, always ached in the soul.

And then the sky opened up, he and Krem had a few words, and a very stressed Tal Vashoth with a glowing green hand showed up to have a few words with him.

oOo

“What do you _mean_ , he's here,” Dorian hisses as Varric drags him into the little house that he and Solas are sharing. Neither are thrilled about the arrangement, but so it goes. Solas, in a corner where he's been writing, looks up with a scowl that disappears when he sees the panic on Dorian's face. “He can't be here!”

“Well, he's here Sparkler, so you better know what you're going to do about it,” Varric insists, his eyes wide and just as anxious. “He's _huge_ , by the way. Have I mentioned that? Because the man is massive and I'm pretty sure if he stepped on me he could squish me. And I'm not much into being squished, personally.”

Dorian lets out a string of Tevene curses and grabs his hair, keening softly as he struggles to keep himself in check. Solas rises, and gently, carefully touches his shoulder. 

“Dorian,” he says quietly, “sit down.”

Dorian does, because Solas has the kind of voice that can convince a man to sit down quite quickly when he decides to use it. He stares up in terrified desperation at the pair of them, and Solas turns to Varric.

“Is this about a soul mate?” He asks, and Varric glances at Dorian, who nods, pale as he can get. “Ah. I see. And you don't want them to know?”

“I don't want my family to find out that my soul mate is even in Thedas,” Dorian says brokenly, on the verge of panic. Solas fetches another chair and sits down next to him, eyes intent. “They'll find a way to kill him. And I'd rather he not be dead, personally. Even if I can't have him.”

“And why can't you?” Solas asks gently. “After all, you're a good many leagues from Tevinter.”

“Yes, but rumor is not,” Dorian says with a broken little laugh. “And if it gets out that I've found my soul mate, believe me, nothing flies faster than arrows in the night. It is far safer for me to pretend he's nothing to me, just- just some Qunari.”

Solas pauses, his eyes widening just a bit. “Ah. I understand the predicament now.”

Dorian lets out a broken, keening sound suspiciously like a wail, and buries his face in his hands.

oOo

Adaar is... skittish. That's perhaps the politest word that anyone can come up with for a near eight foot tall man that's dead terrified of his own shadow. Get him in a fight and everything's fine, but up until that point he's jumping at every leaf on the ground, quick movement, and accidental trip on a stick.

He's also so wide eyed and innocent at 18 that no one can quite bring themselves to make him do much of anything.

He's also very hard to say no to.

“It's- I just want you and The Iron Bull to get along, Dorian,” he's saying, his head ducked and his hands twisting in front of him. Dorian wonders if this is what guilt tripping feels like. He's slightly horrified at how effective it is. “Because I know you're from Tevinter and your people don't much like my people and there's, you know, centuries of fighting and bad blood and torture and slavery but I want everyone to _get along_ , because we're all together for this and I think you would be a good match in a fight and and and-”

“It's okay,” Dorian says, to curtail any more anxious pleading. “I'll manage. The Hinterlands, you said?”

Adaar brightens up like he's the fucking sun, and Dorian feels like a monster. “Yes! With Varric. Thank you, Dorian!”

And he actually skips off, practically trailing flowers behind him.

Dorian turns around, and bangs his head against the nearest wall.

He's been very effectively avoiding The Iron Bull, and now he's about to spend a full week with him. This has got to be the worst idea he's ever had, bar none- well, except for that time that he snuck into the Archon's baccanalia. That was a bad idea.

But he's agreed, so the following morning he saddles up with Varric and Adaar, and they ride out to where The Iron Bull is already waiting on a massive black beast that looks like at one point it might have been a horse before a demon possessed it, and off they go.

The problem is, The Iron Bull is so damn _likable_. Dorian wants nothing more than to stand and bask in his presence, to listen to him laugh and tease and joke, but The Iron Bull wants exactly nothing to do with him. After all, he's from Tevinter. He is The Enemy, and a mage at that. 

And because the universe is cruel, he's put in a tent with The Iron Bull instead of Varric as normal.

oOo

“Would you put out the light?”

The Iron Bull turned, seeing the mage standing stiffly just inside the tent, his eyes fixed on the lantern in the corner.

“Trust me,” he said dryly, “you don't have anything I haven't seen a thousand times before, 'Vint.”

Dorian laughed sharply, and Bull could hear the edge of panic to it. “Oh, you'd be surprised. And I really don't want you to be. Please, will you put out the light until I'm dressed for bed?”

He was pleading now, the panic larger, like the clang of alarm bells hiding in his tone. The Iron Bull was not a cruel man, and picked up the lantern, opening the little door to kill the light inside. His flint was nearby, he could light it again soon enough. He kept his back to Dorian as he rustled about for his sleeping clothes, and wondered about what the man must be hiding for him to be so insistent. 

“I'm fine now,” Dorian said, and he lit the lantern again, turning.

Long sleeves, and a high collar tight around his throat. For a man who seemed to delight in showing off his body, Dorian really showed very little of it. Just that hint of his shoulder and side, nothing more, and it was always tight to his body. And his coat kept him well concealed otherwise.

Dorian burrowed into his bedroll, curling up tight as though he were about to be hit and wanted to protect himself. The Iron Bull felt an ache start inside him, the urge to reach out and protect. This small, prickly 'Vint mage had more to him than met the eye, and he felt like he should probably do something about that.

He slid into his own bedroll and was almost asleep when the teeth chattering started. Granted, it was something of a cool night, but this was ridiculous.

“Okay, no, we're not doing that,” he said, and Dorian's head turned to him. He looked utterly pathetic. “Get over here.”

“What?”

“Get over here and share with me before you wake the whole damn forest with your teeth,” Bull said, and it was clearly a testament to how much Dorian disliked the cold that he didn't hardly put up a fight, just climbed over and into Bull's space. He huddled against him, burrowing into the crook of his arm, and Bull tightened the blanket over them.

“Try and get some sleep,” he murmured, absently running his fingers through Dorian's hair, and was a little startled when Dorian nuzzled against him in response, mumbling something before drifting off almost in an instant.

On his shoulder, there was a little burst of pain, and he glanced down to see, of all things, a little dot of black forming above the square on his right. 

He looked down at Dorian, and back at the innocent little dot, and swallowed hard.

oOo

After that, well, he couldn't quite help but flirt with the man. He was always so flustered, always so uncertain, always so bristly and sweet underneath. After the move to Skyhold, when he moved into the battered little room that was simply his, he made the invitation.

And in time, Dorian came.

“My shirt stays on,” he said, fingers skittering awkwardly down Bull's arm. “Non negotiable. The sleeve can come off, the rest can come off, you can do whatever you like to me, but my shirt stays on.”

“Deal,” Bull said, and between the two of them they destroyed the rest of the room. 

When Dorian snoozed before taking his leave of the room, Bull watched as an I fully formed from the little dot that had been there before, and gently stroked Dorian's hair. He wasn't certain if he dared hope.

But oh, he wanted to hope.

oOo

Dorian comes back. Over and over, he comes back, pressing desperate hands to Bull's chest, tugging him down for needy kisses, whispering desperation against his skin every chance he gets. The shirt stays on, as always, but Bull doesn't mind. He marks up Dorian's legs, worships the skin he's allowed to touch, does everything he can to drive Dorian half out of his mind with need and desire and, Maker help him, love.

Dorian sobs his way through sex some times, he feels so whole, smiling the whole while he has his forehead pressed to the Iron Bull's.

An R grows alongside the I, fancy script that looks suspiciously like Dorian's. Dorian can't think about it, can't bear it, can't can't can't, but in Bull's bed, they are one. They are whole. The door shuts, the locks bolt, and he can have the man he needs so badly.

At last, he makes his decision. He's done hiding. Fuck what his father wants, what Tevinter thinks he should be. Bull deserves to know, and he deserves to know as well.

The morning of the letter's arrival, Dorian is sitting in Bull's bed.

“There's something I have to tell you,” he says at last, and Bull strokes his hair, looking down. “Or show you, I suppose. I don't know how you're going to feel about it, and I understand if you never want to speak to me again. I'll- I'll leave you be.”

He climbs out of bed. Bull watches, his eye widening as Dorian carefully unbuckles his shirt, and lets it fall. He lowers his head to stare at the bed as The Iron Bull surveys his sorry excuse for a soul mate, the war hammer on his chest a burning brand. HISSRAD, exclaims the name from his skin, declaring him owned, wanted, loved.

All Bull has is the RI, but when Dorian looks up, Bull is crying silent tears as ink blossoms across his skin. DORIAN, it spells out, with each agonizing stroke, and Bull climbs off the bed to take his hands as Dorian's throat hitches with sobs.

“ _Kadan_ ,” Bull breathes, and then they're clinging to each other like if they let go, the other will disappear in a heartbeat, and Dorian lets the sobs that have hidden in his throat for so long break loose. He is loved. He has not been rejected. He will let no one take this from him.

oOo

Gatt was not the man Hissrad remembered.

You had to have a certain kind of flexibility when you were Ben Hassrath. The world for them could not be black and white, only shades of grey, light grey, and darker grey. Gatt had had that flexibility in spades, but now, there was none of it. There was only darkness, and light, and the means to an end. He looked for the friend he had once laughed with and found no one there, just a husk of a man full to the brim with hatred and the desire for vengeance.

He was still riding the joy of Dorian's discovery when they went to the Storm Coast. Dorian wasn't with them, as not going to the Storm Coast was his favorite pass time, but Vivienne and Varric were. Adaar was still and calm as they watched the dreadnought approach, his eyes fixed on it. Bull wanted this to go right. He wanted the world to right itself, to tell him he was still of the Qun. His skin was crawling with old fear, the knowledge that somehow, this was about to go horribly, horribly wrong.

He was right.

The Venatori came swarming, towards the people who loved him. 

Shades of grey.

He looked down at the dreadnought, dark in the water. He looked at Gatt, dark with rage, his eyes cold and calculating. He looked at Adaar, his eyes wide in the rain, and listened as his tremulous little voice said, “Save your men, Iron Bull.”

He blew the horn.

Halfway across the country, he knew, Dorian would have just stumbled. Probably in the library, so he could have caught himself on a shelf as books went tumbling from his arms. He would feel the words remaking themselves on his skin, the name HISSRAD stripping away from it. There was no Hissrad here now, only The Iron Bull. He knew that it would be agony to lose the letters, just as much as he had suffered the first time when he discovered no name on his body. Agony, and relief when the letters came back in a new form, branding themselves against Dorian's skin in black. He lowered the horn as Gatt screamed out his rage.

He watched as the dreadnought sank.

He went home.

oOo

Dorian was waiting at the gate for him, his eyes blazing as he paced back and forth with the help of his staff, one hand still resting just beneath his navel. He had to still be aching from the change. Bull slid from the saddle to greet him, sliding his hand around the back of Dorian's neck as his hands reached up to stroke over the dramatic marks down his shoulders and arms.

“You know, then,” he said heavily, and Dorian nodded, pressing a kiss to his chest.

“Come inside,” he said quietly, as the Chargers passed them. “Get warm, and then you can tell me what there is to be told.”

He let himself be brought in through the gates, and walked arm in arm with Dorian up the steps to his room. There'd been some redecorating since Dorian's reveal. Now there were proper curtains, the bed pushed back against the wall and the ceiling repaired. Weapons racks, a desk, chairs, a well stoked fire, little pieces of dawnstone scavenged from the Undercroft to glitter on his mantel, and a book case already overflowing. 

Dorian sat him firmly in the over sized, overstuffed armchair by the fire, kneeling on the rug and bowing his head as he began taking the brace off. Bull let him, exhaustion hitting him like a hammer to the chest. Dorian took his time easing the boot underneath off, and its pair. Oil appeared, and a basin and rag, and he closed his eye as Dorian began to gently wash them.

He understood the significance.

Dorian was well off. Noble. To kneel like a servant, to take the time to clean his lovers feet, to even touch them, was a loud, but humble statement. _I care for you, and I will take care of you myself._

The oils were brought out after, and Dorian chased all the aches from his feet with strong, firm hands that left his feet limp and more full of feeling than they had been in quite some time. He migrated to the horns, taking a tiny brush and making Bull tip his head back to scrub the old blood and grime from them. Those were washed down as well, the dirt falling from them to reveal the thin bands of paler color underneath. They were buffed, and Bull sighed quietly when Dorian revealed horn balm, smelling of crystal grace, and began to work it in. 

The rest of the evening continued much that way, Dorian carefully cleaning him inch by inch until the migrated to the bed to let him straddle his back and work the muscle there. Bull felt numb, the exhaustion keeping the pain at bay and the feeling of Dorian's hands only just keeping him tethered to the world.

When Dorian had finished, he rolled onto his back and watched Dorian carefully put everything away before slowly removing his shirt.

The hammer was the same, as dramatic and beautiful as ever, but the name was different as he had expected. 

THE IRON BULL stared out at him now, strong and firm as HISSRAD had been. It was not listed in Qunlat. Dorian smoothed his hands down his arms, looking at him with tired, pained eyes.

“How bad was it?” he asked quietly, and Bull beckoned him into bed.

“It began pretty normal,” he started, and the two of them drifted off with Bull's voice telling of the screams of trapped Qunari in the air.

oOo

Things have changed between them, Dorian knows. Bull is more hesitant than he had been, and he is more wary as well, uncertain where they both stand with names emblazoned on their body like some great, glorious mark of ownership. _You belong together_ , he thinks in the early morning that's really still night, tracing over the beautiful lines of Bull's marks. _But what will you do when they come for him_?

As it turns out, he doesn't need to be worried about Bull.

He should have been worrying about himself.

“A retainer,” Bull says, watching Dorian pace anxiously back and forth through their room. “And you think he's going to hit you over the head and drag you back?”

“Not in so many words, but, well, yes.” Dorian stops. He never wears a shirt in their room these days, and the war hammer on his chest seems even larger than its real life counterpart. “Look. You've never met my father. I'd like to keep it that way. Frankly, I'm certain if he met you he'd either try and enslave you or kill you on sight, and at this point I'm not sure which is worse.”

Bull knows about the blood magic. Dorian has very, very bad nightmares, and after the sixth night straight of being woken up by a pleading, half mad mage who thinks he's being dragged to the ritual, they had A Talk. So Bull knows. No one else does. No one else ever will, if he has his say.

“I'll go with you,” he says simply. “I'll stay outside, but just in case something goes wrong, I'll be there. Adaar's great, but. Well.”

“Adaar is easily stressed,” Dorian says tactfully, and nods. “Very well.” Dorian walks over to the bed, climbs in Bull's lap, and presses his forehead to Bull's neck. “I hate this.”

“I know, _kadan_ ,” Bull murmurs, kissing the side of his head. “I know.”

oOo

When it comes down to it, Dorian doesn't actually remember much of his conversation with his father. There's a distinct lack of yelling, aside from on his part, he knows that, but the rest is sort of lost. Even when Adaar slides out the door to let them be alone, he has a hard time tracking everything that happened.

He does remember his father looking directly into his eyes and saying, “Can he make you happy?”

As if it were something he thought impossible. As if The Iron Bull, spirit of indomitable will, could never do that for him.

“I have found the one person in the entirety of the world whose whole soul is devoted to mine,” he remembers saying with crystal clarity. “I have found the one man who will move mountains for me, the man who will lift me up when all others will cast me down, the man who will weather any storm for me, and most of all, I have found the one man in all the world for whom I will do the same.”

He leaves.

The Iron Bull is waiting under a tree outside, leaning against it, his body a long, loose tangle of limbs and bad fashion and huge leather belt. His war hammer hangs on his back, his marks are darker than night, Dorian's name is proud on his shoulder, for all the world to see.

Dorian stops in front of him, looking up. The Iron Bull looks down, a faint smile on his face.

“The Iron Bull,” he says, tasting the words in his mouth, letting them out into the world with reverence on his tongue.

“Dorian,” The Iron Bull says, with devotion, and adoration, and pride.

And Dorian reached up to hold his cheek as The Iron Bull leaned down to kiss him.

oOo

**“I have enjoyed the happiness of the world; I have lived and loved.” - Schiller**

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Stanza XII of _The Rubaiyat_ , by Omar Khayyam, specifically the fifth edition, translated by Edward FitzGerald.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Oh, Wilderness Were Paradise Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5281448) by [sallysparrow017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysparrow017/pseuds/sallysparrow017)




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